


When Sorrows Come

by Humanities_Handbag



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Loss, Memories, Strange Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:44:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions." </p><p>-William Shakespeare</p><p>Angst is a natural part of life. Not everything can be happy all the time. Especially for a couple as different as night and day, and yet, like the moon and the sun, they will chase each other round the world to be together and give up what they will to do what it takes.</p><p>A compilation of all my angst ficlets written. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Sorrows Come

It had all been routine. So  _agonizingly_  routine that the thought of an issue hadn’t raised brows or brought on suspicion. And he had invited her because it was so  _routine_  and she had asked - _wanted, needed, craved_ \- to know more about what his forest provided. How it was managed and maintained. So she’d followed along eagerly, flitting through the trees with trills of laughter, lighting the weight of duties on his shoulders and making the day seem like it might have had a chance to be  _bearable_.

The problem had arisen upon the death of a Trapdoor Spider. A few days old, the shell had been found a few feet away from where it had claimed its burrow, the arachnid having scuttled out with it’s last breaths to take another look at the sunlight that had never reached it. A black and shiny thing with fangs the size of Bog’s forearm and sharp, brazen fur covering long, skittering legs, Marianne had stared at it in abject horror when they’d arrived, refusing to go anywhere near the expired predator, hollow eyes still gleaming in the stray strings of sunlight that passed through the thicket. 

“So… do people hunt those things or something?” she’d asked, watching for signs of life out of the corner of her eye, almost sure that it would spring up at any second to claim her as it’s last and final kill. “What… what happened?”

“Nothing happened, love,” he explained, maneuvering her away. And even in the morose circumstance she was grateful that he wasn’t forcing her to face the beast head on. “Things die, that’s all.” Then, after a moment, “But no, none of my people hunt those. They hunt us.” Under his breath he added, “Things have gotten better under my reign- tracking their burrows and such. But… there’s always the spare Goblin that doesn’t listen.” He didn’t miss her shudder, but didn’t say anything- hand at her lower back pressing her on.

The issue, as he told her, circling the area and ordering people back, was the burrow. Without it’s host keeping it stacked with leaves and fresh soil it became unsteady and the land would crumble, the insides rotting back into loose dirt, dangerous and slippery and heavy. “We need to fill it in,” he pointed to one or two Goblin’s that she recognized - _Mugwart… Luggar… and those two who had held her down at the Spring Ball_ \- and they scampered off for material. “New things that will keep the land from falling down into itself.”

“Can I help?” she offered, dipping her head to look through the darkened tunnel just peeking out between holes and tears in the sad looking entrance, a cork of silk and brittle earth. “I could go with them or something.” 

“No, no, we could use you here.” He barked a few more orders to wayward Goblins who were quick to find posts. “We need to keep people back- alert anyone who might come this way. It isn’t stable enough to hold any real weight. Probably paper thin by now.” He traveled closer, carefully wandering above where the door was settled, Marianne tiptoeing behind curiously. He poked at the ground with one of his clawed feet and she watched the land sink, sponging back under his instruction. “Yeh, see tha’? You’d sink right through.” He jumped off, wings buzzing through the air, and she followed after giving the ground her own booted poke, feeling the squelch of disuse under the sole.

“Right,” she flew down beside him, walking along, his staff hitting lightly against risen and unkempt roots, “so just alert people.”

“Hundred pace radius,” he motioned his staff in a circle. “I’ll go supervise the louts I sent out- no doubt they’re out finding worthless bits and bobs.”

“Right,” she hovered up, pecking him on the cheek, “go and be intimidating. I’ll go do my job.” He captured her hand when she drew back, pressing his lips to the back of it.

“Thanks for you’re help, love. It really is saving me half the time.”

“Hey, anything to get you to stop being a total grump.” He snorted, swinging his staff lightly at her before she flew off, teases pearling away at her heels. 

And everything was routine. So completely _routine_. He had gotten materials, she had sent word through mushrooms, dipped through the sky and alerted any and all about the empty spider nest in the glen, had received many thanks, a few dirty looks and one or two chirps of gossip from some of the more accepting of the Dark Foresters.

And then a child had wandered through.

Small enough to shirk under plants, rustling like a caterpillar through the ferns, he had missed the attentions of the Fairy Princess skimming through the air above him. So simple - _so routine_ \- he’d gotten separated from his friends and had wandered into the empty patch of trees, trodding over soil and leaves, humming a tune and calling out for other children who he was  _sure_  had to be nearby.

Marianne heard him first. Bog second. Both so close to meeting each other, Bog and his procession had perked their ears to the sounds of the lone wanderer as Marianne had brushed through the trees.

“Hey!” she shouted, landing, tripping over broken branches, panting from flight, forehead sheen under the seeping sunset, “Hey! No! Don’t go there!” The boy turned, blinking at her with wide, unknowing eyes, not sure whether to be afraid of the King moving in from behind him or the Fae sprinting his way, and he wobbled backwards onto the frail bump of land, and she watched in horror as it began to sink. Her wings flared out, feet just skimming the ground-

“Marianne! No-”

But by then she had one goal in mind, and she reached it. Hunched, long fingers hooking onto shoulders, she gave the boy a shove that sent him somersaulting backwards with a yelp, her full weight bearing down upon the ground to gain enough leverage.

“ ** _Maria_** -”

The ground opened up beneath her before he could even finish her name, and the last thing she saw was the dark green of twilight on the trees, the burnt edge of scales and piercing, wide blue, before she was swallowed into the darkness and pooled over into dirt and muck and grave.

* * *

Bog’s fearful snarl only took up three seconds of time, wings flaring up, beating the air with useless fury. And before anyone had truly even registered what had happened - _the flash of amethyst as it sunk away into the muck of forgotten web and world_ \- there were orders being bellowed this way and that. Supplies were dropped in favor of any sort of tool in the bundle. The directions of  _careful_ and  _gently_  and  _faster_  and  _go, go, go_ , laced with enough fear to electrify the air and enough anger to hollow out shells.

The spider, sitting by itself, alone and tranquil and perfectly happy to stay that way, a skeleton of an example of life under the trees, watched in amusement as minutes ticked by. It’s exemplary eyes twitched in the waning sun. In life it had been territorial and aggressive, but it was finding that the passive state it was currently stuck residing in was not bad at all. It was already dead. What was another in it’s home? So it watched them with humorless amusement as they dug and called and screamed and commanded and bellowed and begged. 

Truly, Goblin’s and Fairies were such fickle things. Even if Fairies tended to be more delightfully delicious in the end, it would seem that both were the same when it came to how flustered they were over a simple and menial thing such as death. It wasn’t a complicated idea at all, the spider mused, happy it was so accepting of it’s current state. Death was simply not being there. And if you weren’t there, then why worry at all? 

But they continued to worry, and the spider watched them with a glinted eye as it pondered lightly over the absurdness of emotions and the fickleness of caring. All it really did was weaken and rot after all. And who would possibly want that?

It would take them exactly six minutes and forty three seconds - _hands, sticks, leaves and roots all pressing through inch upon inch of black, hardened mud and stringing, shimmering silk and steel_ \- before the mighty King’s claws, gouging through the layers, caught the first sign of violet and called off the circle of frantic scavengers, dipping long arms with struggle through the heavy leftovers, finally gaining traction on something soft, organic, and latched on, tugging with all his might upward.

She was dragged out with a forlorn  _slurp_ , the ground releasing it’s new found companion with reluctance, covered in muck, hair plastered to her head and wings weighted under aggressive strokes and weeds. A flash of red, five long drags of opened skin, a mark of past heart beats. She lolled against his chest, his fingers pressing against her face, wiping dirt and mud and rot from closed eyes, fluttering against her neck, searching fruitlessly for a pulse that would not cry out. 

She was pressed against cool ground with enough force to break it all again, his mouth slamming against hers, grunts of effort streaming from desperate lungs still inflamed around a static muscle- he attacked her chest with untamed claws, skittering and pounding before going back to try and fill everything where nothing existed in earnest repetition-

The spider sighed, hunkering down motionless, watching its old home become a coffin.

Wasn’t death just so completely  _routine_.

Then the blasted Fairy decided to wake up and the spider, morose from having lost it’s chance at a final stunning capture, awaited a silence free from bothersome Goblins and all of their silly noise over useless flighty things.

* * *

There were lips on hers, sharpened teeth scratching away at thin skin, pressure on her chest, a beating from something sharp and angled and long and cruel. More lips and a magnificent stinging, breaking, cracking, pushing, and suddenly there was the vertigo of an internal curl and an onslaught of sand and soil was evicting from deep within her and she was coughing and shivering and twisting against the cold, night soothed grasses. Someone tipped her over and her body practically caved under the pressure of fresh air, her breaths and coughs greedy suctions and violent demonstrations.

Someone was talking but she couldn’t really hear over the thin whine of her ears and the pounding at her skull. Everything ached and burned in the most disgusting and glorious of ways and she wanted nothing more for it to stop and never stop- it hurt, but it meant she was  _alive_  didn’t it, and she almost wasn’t, wasn’t she? Because memories of children in dangerous places and blue eyes were rushing back into a mind finally fed and she was able to catch a quick break from the assault on her body to take in a few shallow breaths and blink away crusted dirt at her lashes.

Something shouted around her and she did her best to block it out. Sounds of footfalls rushing away. More angry bursts of snarls. She swallowed, and her dry mouth bobbed against the cruel movement.

“-anne!”

She squinted through the haze. Oh, right. Bog… he’d been there too, hadn’t he? She’d seen him. She blinked again, eyes wandering round, trying to latch onto anything, finally falling on glinting fangs and azure.

“ _Marianne_!”  _Oooh ouch, too loud._ She squinted, flinching. He must have not gotten the memo, scooping her from the ground into his arms, one sharp ligament going round her shoulders and her head fell uselessly against his sharpened shoulder. “ _Marianne, speak to me, love!_ ”

She coughed again, tasting something bitter and chalky. “Ow.”

He sighed, a rushed exhale, and for a moment she swore he saw something glinting in his eyes, blinked away in an instant. His brow fell against hers, dirt smearing the scales, and his breaths came out as labored as hers. “Thank tha gods…” the thick words brushing against her face, disturbing the cracked, drying layers, nose bumping against her cheek, a line of dust unsettling, skin gasping through. “ _Thank tha gods_ …”

She wanted him to open his eyes again, the Wild Baby’s Breath squeezed so tightly shut that the creases round them blended with the cracks of his carapace, scars of their own making taking over what they desired. She raised one arm, too much effort for the simple gesture, and managed to just skim his neck with tired fingers. He reacted as if he’d been burned, sucking in air sharply, eyes finally opening and she smiled, lithe and exhausted and confused.

Bog snatched her hand, pressing it to his lips before moving to pepper her face with sooty, blustery kisses.

“…hey…” she croaked. 

“Don’t ye - _mph_ \- just say - _ph_ -  _hey_  to me after - _mm_ -  _that_.” He drew back, and she did her best to desperately pin down a single emotions, but too many flashed there,  _sadness and rage and fear and relief and need and want_ , and he swallowed, seemingly trying to find one himself. “ _Gods, Marianne…”_

She tried to lift herself up, falling back into his grip, his soft growls of  _don’t move_ heavy around her. “The kid… I s-saw… there was a… a _child_ -”

“He’s fine. He’s with ‘is mam now.” Bog promised, exasperated, “A wee bit scared, but  _fine_.”

She nodded, eyes fluttering. “ _Good… And…”_  she blinked again, moving back enough to see the piles of dirt that lay about them, “ _what… what h-ha-_ ”

“You fell through,” he explained, clipped _,_ strained, “You fell through the sinkhole into the nest and- _why didn’t you listen to me!_  I told you-I  _told you_ it was dangerous _and you just_ -”

She shushed him, fingers brushing against his lips leaving stains of red earth. A shaky smile against her own. His thumb moved momentarily freeing what he could of dirt there and she grasped his hand, large,  _anchoring_  in her own shaking one. “ _Had to get… the kid_ …” she explained through a sore throat, quiet and trembled like a forgotten and time frosted cello. “ _had to save…”_

He nodded. “ _I know,_ ” he whispered, and he leaned back against her, holding her as tightly as he could until he was sure the world would collapse between them, “ _You always have to save someone_ …” and it was so mournfully filled with pride that even she had to press back tears.

She stopped them by adding, “ _I need a bath…_ ” and he barked out a trill, hysterical laugh, wet and pooling.

“Yes, love,” he choked. “We’ll go. Now. We’ll get… we’ll get ye cleaned up, And tea, and a hot meal and sleep-” she hummed against him, doing her best to wipe away the sadness that clung like brambles and antique cologne, because she wasn’t upset,  _she had saved a child, she was still here and she wasn’t done fighting yet_. She wasn’t sad- so why was he? He moved back, and his hands, so gentle, careful, moved over claw marks against her arm, scarlet and searing. “ _I hurt you_ ,” he offered, scared, disgusted, ashamed.

“ _Bog… you didn’t… just a… a_   _scratch_ … _does…n… hurt…_ ” another pause. “ _I need a bath,_ ” she said again, because she truly did, and if normalcy would stop him from being so forlorn then she’d mention the state of the weather a million times over.

He shook his head, long nose scraping and bumping against her, nails clicking and hissing, drumming away to create soothing rhythms to appease the hungry night. “ _Marianne-_ ” he breathed out, shuddering, and she nodded- 

-normal, she discovered, was simply not enough.

“ _It’s okay…”_  Marianne finally managed to whisper, as much as a throat closed with thorns would allow before she steadily reminded him “ _Things…_ things  _happen_ …  _Bog…_   _can’t…_ can’t just stop do _-doing_ dangerous things…”, and he did his best to nod, but just fell forward into her instead. He pressed his face into her neck, breathing her in, filling every crevice of his being with  _her_  and she wound her fingers round his head, dragging down scales with melodic  _ticks_  of each falling shelf. “ _I’m okay…_ ”

“ _I almost lost you,_ ” he pressed out, muffled flush against her skin, something hot, trailing, leaked down her throat, cleaning away what it could. And she didn’t say anything back, just letting him hold her until he was ready to let go, his entire body bent over and around her like wind-abused grasses, protecting her from enemies he desperately longed to control.

He wouldn’t be ready for quite a while. And that night, clean and warm and together in bed, cloaked under pitch, he had refused to untie his claws from their stitching, face buried into her hair. She’d wound her still damp wings round them both, as sheltering as he would allow her to be, his own form continuously insistent,  _needing, pleading, begging,_  to protect and she dropped what stubborn pride she had to allow him. “I’m still here,” she reminded him again, lips pressed to his chest to let him feel every syllable, clear and alive, long fingers tracing scales and rivulets with gentle insistence of that fact.

” _I almost lost you_ ,” he whispered, and he’d said it enough times to rock the vowels into a frenzy. He hadn’t known what it would be like to truly live in a world without her, and now that he did he was determined to fill it up with nothing but memories and words and promises to make sure she lasted until the Universe crumbled.

So she held him for the rest of the night and promised with gentle kisses and a hummed tune of nostalgic wild things that she’d be there in the morning.

 


End file.
